


A Cabin in the Woods

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: D/s dynamic, Light BDSM, M/M, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a pleasure planet, Kirk does not realize the way his deepest desires lay - until of course, they are made startlingly real...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cabin in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [backinblack (ginandironic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginandironic/gifts).



> This story was written for backinblack, in the 2009 'happy_trekmas' exchange. It takes place directly after the TOS episode Shore Leave, in which the landing party investigate a seemingly beautiful, green planet, which has the uncanny ability to produce real versions of whatever person, object or beast spring to their minds. Hijinks featuring tigers, WWII aircraft, Samurais and Kirk's old girlfriend ensue...

The Caretaker had disappeared as suddenly as he had manifested himself – leaving the landing party feeling relieved, exhausted, and just slightly foolish. So, all that mess – the enemy fire, wild beasts, suspected death of one of his closest friends – had just been for  _fun_ , then, eh? The rebel in Jim's heart kinda liked it.  
  
From his first horseback gallop at the age of four, to the charge through the bridge of a Klingon vessel just one month previous, Kirk had always been a man to meet life head-on and take whatever it spun at him. He certainly had no death-wish – he maintained that he was far too lucky to  _really_  get caught, whether he truly believed that or no – but he did live on adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. Therefore, it stuck him that going on vacation should be no different; the excitements and tribulations of that pleasure-planet should be perfect.  
  
After arranging practicalities with the crew, and a lasciviously conspiratorial wink in McCoy's direction just for good show, Jim found himself trailing through the woods in pursuit of that amazingly life-like copy of his old girlfriend. She had melted ahead, leading the way to somewhere apparently... _private._.   
  
The soft thud of his boots upon grass punctuated Jim's thoughts, trying hard to buoy himself into the right state of mind for some time-out, like a ratchet winding a spring. He was all set to have fun, he told himself - perhaps a mite too firmly. The sun was shining, the pterodactyls were singing, and Spock had specifically tricked him into admitting that he needed some Shore Leave, after all.  
  
At that notion, Jim's efforts at cheerfulness hit a barrier of sorts, and for the first time he could place what might feel amiss.  _What a pity that Spock had decided not to join them._  
  
He let out a derisive chuckle at his own wishful-thinking, disturbing the peaceful thicket through which he paced. He couldn't honestly expect his serious, Vulcan First Officer to countenance spending time cavorting in an amusement park, of all places, now could he? Oh no, Kirk knew his Vulcan well enough not to presume the impossible.   
  
But,  _it was just that..._    
  
Jim frowned; he wasn't quite sure how to complete that sentence. Something was tugging inside him; something he couldn't quite name.  _It was just that..._    
  
He thought for a moment, trying to articulate whatever it was within his breast as he strode through the glossy undergrowth, but words again failed him. Jim gave a wry smile at his own ineloquence – the same smile that crept over his lips when Spock called him 'illogical' and he couldn't muster the ire to feel insulted. With the mental equivalent of a shrug, he finished the thought in the only way he could – far too bland for all the gossamer layers of memory and perception that seemed to be wrapped up around that very question, but nevertheless honest:  _...it would have been nice._  
  
A shade of melancholy settled over Jim then, but it was almost comfortable, like a well-worn blanket, so he didn't fight it. He'd been feeling like that a lot lately – probably just endemic tiredness and captainly stress, he told himself – and the only thing that seemed to help was a late-night game of chess with Spock, and the chance to talk about... well, whatever it was they happened to discuss. The topic itself didn't really seem to matter.  
  
Jim was so consumed by such musings, he literally bumped into Ruth upon reaching a clearing; she had stopped to wait for him, calm and silent. Bouncing backwards with theatrical flair, he flashed a grin and made an expansive gesture of general distraction about him. “I'm sorry, I...”  
  
“It's quite alright Jim,” she assured, taking his hand - and Kirk was struck once more by how very pretty his old flame seemed to be – soft blonde hair, big doe-like eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth, parted and waiting for his kisses.   
  
 _Of course, it isn't really Ruth,_  the sensible part of his mind chimed-in.  _She's an android. She's made of plant, for heaven's sake!_    
  
At once, the whole scenario seemed ridiculous, even just for fun. Spock would thoroughly disapprove of such willful self-delusion, he was sure - would likely give him a lecture about the nonsensical mores of the human psyche, complete with that wonderful expression of veiled incredulousness; the one that Jim couldn't quite tell whether it conveyed earnest patronizing of a less-intelligent being, or gentle teasing of an eccentric equal. Perhaps it was both.  
  
He shook his head briskly and tried to focus. The deep-and-meaningfuls weren't doing him any good, and a healthy dose of suspension-of-disbelief was exactly what he needed. He was in an amusement park; he was supposed to be having fun, damn it! Thus, Kirk mustered the full force of his resolution and decided:  _Ruthdroid is it then. And a damn fine broad she is too._  
  
As if she had been programmed to respond to the patterns of his thoughts, Ruthdroid closed her eyes and parted her lips, leaning toward Kirk and embracing him. Jim kissed her out of habit, just as he usually did when females swooned in his general direction. It was... perfectly pleasant. Not earth-shattering –  _but then again_ , thought Kirk,  _it never was these days._    
  
To be frank, he had found it difficult to become particularly interested in one woman over another, ever since he had settled in to his captaincy of the _Enterprise_. Of course, he had gone through the motions – perhaps it was the path of least resistance when creatures in possession of two X-chromosomes insisted in flinging themselves at him – but his heart had not really been in it. It just seemed to be part of the job: seduce his way out of a she-alien trap here, find some red-blooded release with a perfectly sweet - if rather anonymous – ensign, there. He couldn't remember when his emotions had last been engaged in one such encounter; it was almost as if they were stoppered up, waiting on the launch pad for something more special.  
  
They parted smoothly, and then Ruth took his hand and led him around a stand of trees toward another clearing – one that seemed even more secluded than the last; it was a good selling-point that the planet seemed to offer such 'private' facilities, Jim reflected.   
  
Revealed there was a small building – low and open and inviting. Kirk knew exactly what it was; he had described it enough times to as many women, after all. His 'cabin in the woods' sat there just before him, half-open to the caress of the forest air, cherry-wood floor warm and lush, muslin drapes fluttering in the breeze as they framed the large French doors. Within, there was the most luxurious double bed, dressed with buttery satin sheets and perfect sunlight from above. Kirk had spun tales of this place to women of all ages and species; women from other ships; women from other galaxies. It was a whisper of excitement from the natural world they seldom got to see; a promise of domesticity he would never keep; a sugar-spun dream of romance in a world of transistors and life-support and the silence of deep space, designed to oil the wheels of his latest conquest and make the woman feel special, even though she likely was not.   
  
So, how fitting it seemed, Kirk thought, that he should finally visit this place – this false place of beautiful broken promises – with a woman who was knotted from cellulose and robotics, not of flesh and blood.  
  
Ruthdroid tripped inside the cabin and beckoned Jim to join her as she perched upon the bed. A few years ago, it would have been all the invitation that Jim needed, and he acted out the same sequence just then – gentle words whispered in an ear, kisses becoming more insistent and more horizontal by the minute and hands travelling to all of the well-practised places: shoulder, cheek, breast, buttock. The woman responded just as if she were real.  
  
Finally, Ruth paused - hair winningly dishevelled, lips in a pretty pout – and simpered, “How about I slip into something more... comfortable?”   
  
Jim nodded, watched her leave the room - and then berated himself that apparently even his memories used corny lines. Spock would disapprove of such limited use of vocabulary, he was sure... and upon that thought, Jim was struck by the most arresting image that had crossed his mind that whole afternoon: Spock gazing at him in admonishment, eyebrow raised and dark eyes boring into his own, gliding closer... all the energy of that great intellect focussed solely on him, the Vulcan strength of that body attending to him and him alone... about to do something to correct the error of Jim's ways; something intense and wicked and wonderful...   
  
Jim couldn't explain why he suddenly felt his blood run hot and he was getting hard, but it was true, all the same. In fact, he had little time to ponder, as he was he was roused from such imaginings by the appearance of a figure in his peripheral vision; he turned, expecting to see Ruthdroid artfully clad in scraps of lace. The sight that met his eyes, however, was far, far more exciting.  
  
A perfect replica of Spock strode into the cabin, clutching a large, flat, skin-clad object. He was wearing nothing save tall boots studded in silver, and deliciously tight black leather pants, the supple fabric hugging his hipbones as they cut almost obscenely low, revealing a long expanse of firm stomach decorated with that tantalizing trail of dark hair. The Vulcan's expression was stern and serious and just  _desperately_  goddamn alluring.   
  
Seeing his subconscious laid bare like that, Jim was suddenly, painfully, very sure of the thing for which he had been pining. His heart pounded and his cock ached with the idea of it: Spock; everything about Spock. To have Spock as his own – and moreover to be  _taken_  by Spock as  _his_  own; to be possessed and claimed and wanted and... disciplined.   
  
When he recognized the leather paddle in not-Spock's hands, the air caught in Jim's throat and he immediately knew what he desired. Without further thought, he tore his clothes and boots off, throwing them to the floor in an inelegant heap, and span onto his hands and knees - ass bare and wantonly presented upward. Any sense of perspective had disappeared; there was no amusement park or Caretaker or things made from leaves, now, as far as Jim was concerned. He could only gasp and twitch and prickle with excitement as he heard not-Spock stalk closer to his upturned backside, circling the bed, examining him and making his cock throb with the intensity of it.  
  
“Please, Spock...” he breathed, hearing his own voice quiver, and loving it.  
  
For a painfully long stretch, all was silence save for those careful, orderly footfalls, out of sight from Jim's prone position, but their resonance making Spock's position clear. The click, click of boots against cherry-wood then gave way only to the ragged noises of Jim's breathing; Spock must have stopped somewhere behind him; he was being scrutinized; assessed.  _Oh God._  He was so, so hard; practically on fire...  
  
The first stroke came without warning: a sharp smack of the paddle to his left buttock, and Jim cried out, revelling in the waves of heat that radiated across his tender skin. Then came a blow to his right; equally hard and just as exciting, making his thighs quiver.  
  
“You have disobeyed me Jim, and for that you must be punished.” Spock's voice was low and molten; perfectly measured. Another blow followed swiftly, arousal blooming as it smarted, and Jim wriggled his ass, hungry for more.  
  
“For the girls with whom you have flirted when you should have been at my side,” Crack. “For the women you have courted when you should have been in my bed,” Crack, smack. “For the females with whom you have mated when your body is rightfully mine-” Crack. “- And mine alone.”   
  
A rain of blows came then, across Jim's ass and thighs, and he moaned loudly at both the sensation and the words. “Yesss...” he hissed, skin alight and cock bobbing hard against his stomach; he was close - so desperately close - to coming untouched. “Fuck, Spock... yes...”  
  
For that he was rewarded with a particularly hard smack across his now-tender cheeks. “You are mine, Jim Kirk.” Crack. “You belong-” Smack...  
  
\- The sound of phaser-fire.  
  
With a dull thud, not-Spock crumpled into a heap on the floor, plant-matter eyes glazed and lifeless.  
  
Jim's captainly instincts were triggered in a flash. Who was the intruder? An enemy army? A wild beast? His better senses clicking into action, Jim sprang to his feet in one fluid motion, grabbing a sheet from the bed to cover himself as he did so. Whatever the problem, it was likely serious; wasn't this corner supposed to be private?  
  
Given the sight that met his eyes, though, Jim reckoned that he would have far rather faced a rabid tiger or a whole army of Klingons. - For who should be there but his very own First Officer, standing very still and calm, an unreadable expression plastered across his elegant features.  
  
Jim clutched the sheet more tightly around him.  _How much had Spock seen? How could he, Kirk, have been so reckless?!_  
  
Wishing the ground could swallow him whole, Jim started, “Oh God. Spock, I...”  
  
But Spock waved him silent with a crisp motion of the right hand, his gaze not leaving Jim's unclad form for one moment. “I regret I do not possess the Terran garments that you seem to find attractive, but I believe that the other specified elements can be recreated with sufficient accuracy.”  
  
In one smooth sweep, Spock removed both his tunic and black undershirt, revealing strong shoulders and that wonderfully tight torso. He let the garments drop to the floor. Jim just stared, mouth agape but not daring to say a word.  
  
“Now, on your back,” Spock ordered, without missing a beat.  
  
“You... I mean, what?”  
  
“Do not disobey me, Jim,” said Spock in a low, warning tone. He glided forward, slowly and deliberately. “I clearly told you to lie upon the bed, on your back.”  
  
The full implications of those words sank in, and if Jim's mouth could possibly have gone any drier, it did then. Spock – his very own Spock – was agreeing... was offering to... Well, Jim wasn't exactly sure what, nor had he the time to ponder. His mind was clouded with amazement and thick clouds of lust, and it took all of his remaining attention to drop the sheet and settle backward as he had been told, his eyes not leaving those dangerous black pools that unblinkingly regarded him, even as his tender backside smarted upon the sheets.  
  
“Put your hands above your head.”  
  
Jim did not hesitate this time; he raised his arms in compliance, not even questioning what Spock was planning – and then found his wrists locked within handcuffs, padded on the inside but impossibly firm in their hold.  
  
Naked and restrained under Spock's even gaze, he couldn't help but moan in arousal. His First Officer; his friend; and now, his willing tormentor, regarded his spread form – muscles in his arms bunching from the unaccustomed hold, and diaphragm fluttering with uneven, excited breaths. His cock bobbed alone and upright, deep red and so very swollen.  
  
Spock retrieved something from a table that Kirk had not even been aware was in the room, and came to his side, tracing the object along the sensitive skin beneath his upper arm. It was ice.   
  
Gasping and twisting from the shock of the cold, Jim inadvertently lead the path of Spock's hand to the planes of his chest. Spock made a satisfied noise at this development, and proceeded to trace the frozen cube about Jim's nipple – one and then the other, the nubs hardening into stiff peaks surrounded by tightened puckers. “Your areolae appear most agreeable, thus,” Spock stated, and then pinched – hard.  
  
Jim's cry was more one of erotic overload than of pain; being touched and teased and claimed like that by Spock felt so very perfect, so very right – and he arched upward against his bonds, seeking at once release and more intensity. In response, Spock applied the ice once more, tracing the sides of his ribs, and then slowly sliding down the soft flesh of his stomach where he was carrying a little extra, the ice dipping into his navel and making him gasp and squirm ever more, setting upon the nerve endings that travelled from the indentations of his hips down into his groin, until all became a frenzy... and he felt a tightening in his balls, the beginnings of a bright surge of ecstasy...   
  
\- But then Spock's hand gripped tightly around the base of his penis, stopping his orgasm just as the cry of release was forming on his lips. “You may not ejaculate until such time as I grant permission, Jim.”  
  
Something approximating both a sob and a gurgle escaped Kirk's lips. “Please, Spock. I... I need...” His cock was burning and he could barely see straight with urgency.  
  
Ignoring his pleas, Spock continued, “Now, part your legs.”   
  
Jim was helpless; he didn't even think before he obeyed, thighs wide and wanton as they moved upward, ass aflame as it rubbed against the smooth sheets. One of Spock's hands remained on his erection, firm and commanding, but the other – magically now cool and slick – moved between his legs and came to brush against the tight pucker that was now exposed.   
  
Jim cried out in full voice at that touch – so deliciously, sinfully, welcomely intimate – and Spock gave a satisfied - perhaps almost  _smug_  - nod at the sound. How the expressions next played across Spock's features, Jim could not say, for he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut and to be alive to nothing but the exquisite sensation of Spock's fingers pressing inside him - smooth but relentless, stretching him wide and sending sparks of urgency to his straining cock. If  _only_  he could come...  
  
“Aaaaghh!” Spock's fingers found Kirk's prostate and massaged. It was more intense than anything Jim could remember feeling – being gripped like that, stinging and smarting and touched  _inside_  - and he honestly wondered whether he could stand any more of such perfection. “Please.... Spock please....”  
  
“Very well,” agreed the Vulcan, voice level, but ever-so-slightly ragged, now - and he finally released his fierce grip at the base of Jim's cock and stroked; once, twice, all while fucking Jim with the fingers of his other hand in perfect rhythm.   
  
On the third stroke, Jim was gone. He strained upward against the cuffs as every muscle he owned went rigid and a tremendous surge of heat and madness and blinding light swept through him; it seemed to last for minutes; overwhelming and indescribable pleasure.  
  
Finally, Jim collapsed upon the bed, limp and quivering, eyes not yet mustering the energy to press themselves open. Somehow, the restraints were removed and the hot mess upon his belly was cleaned away; Jim felt too dazed to register exactly how.   
  
When at last the world swam back into focus, he was greeted by the sight of Spock perched on the edge of the bed, peering at him – perhaps quizzically, perhaps in expectation. The assumed fierceness in his eyes had been replaced by a glint of... was that tenderness? Or maybe a hint of trepidation?  
  
“Wow. Spock, that was...” Once again, Jim uncharacteristically didn't seem to have the words. “I mean... well!” He gestured around them both, to the cabin and the dishevelled bed, and to their forms, each in different states of undress.  
  
“Indeed, it was,” Spock agreed, an arch of the eyebrow underlining his point.  
  
He was not offered anything more, though, and at that point – when the euphoria was just beginning to ebb - an awkwardness began to prick at Jim's mind. He tried to process everything that had just happened: Ruthdroid, then not-Spock, then  _real_  Spock - his own Spock who was currently perched across from his naked form, bare chested and beholding him.   
  
It all seemed far too much to believe... but then Jim was struck by how much he  _wanted_  for it all to be true - as if the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle was at last sliding into place, and a very long search was coming to an end. He blinked a little, trying to get it all straight, but then did what he always did when things needed explaining: “Spock, I'm not sure I understand.”  
  
The Vulcan left a moment of silence, but then began to speak, clear and smooth as ever. “My devotion to you can take many forms, Jim. I had long despaired of the fact that your preference for females would make any non-platonic expression of such devotion both impossible and deeply unwelcome from your perspective... but I am gratified to be proven wrong in that regard this day – if my observations and consequent deductions are correct, that is.” He raised an eyebrow just then, the confirmed master of understatement. “I admit that the particular means by which I discovered your wishes were... unexpected. However, they were not unappreciated.”  
  
Jim took all that in, his head spinning as his universe seemed to be dismantled, reshaped, and put back together in the space of a paragraph. Many things, though, still seemed unclear. “So what do you want, exactly?”  
  
“I wish for nothing that you do not wish to share,” Spock replied, suddenly tight lipped and avoiding his gaze.  
  
That threw Jim further off-kilter. “Please speak plainly, Spock. Don't you think we've passed the point of...” he gestured around them at the disarrayed bed, their lack of clothes, “...talking in riddles?”  
  
“Mmm.” It was an acquiescence, of sorts. Spock took a deep breath and paused, a crease forming between his brows as some war of logic was being fought inside. When he spoke once more, it was soft and measured, each word straining forth as if it took great effort to pronounce. “Jim, my interest in you is neither casual nor confined to the particular dynamic we have experienced here – although that is not to say that I did not find it extremely... stimulating. I am amenable to being whatever it is that you might wish of me, however little or much that proves to be.” He looked down, then around them, taking in the strange scene and the over-bright, over-lovely surroundings. The  _Enterprise_  was not like this. “I find that...” Another pause, as an idea seemed to settle. Then, Spock widened his eyes in that way he did when contemplating an undeniable and profound fact of the universe, able to do nothing but state it, outright. “...I am yours.”  
  
Jim was quite unprepared for the vast bubble of happiness that welled up within him upon hearing those words. He couldn't have held back the enormous smile that overcame his features even had he wanted to, and somewhere, deep down, his heart sighed with relief. “In which case, I feel I have a favour or three to repay when he get back to the ship, Mr. Spock.”  
  
“That would be more than acceptable.” Spock's mouth twitched upward as he said it, and Jim surged forward to capture those clever lips in his own. They were tense at first, taken by surprise, but softened under Jim's touch – light and chaste, but then deepening; full of tenderness and promise.  
  
How peculiar to think that they had not kissed before, thought Jim, as his mouth moved, coaxing Spock to mingle their tongues; that they had saved each other's lives, and talked all night, and now fucked – but not kissed?  
  
Spock sighed gently at the contact, some of the stiffness escaping his frame as Jim's hands came to rest about him and they explored this new delight together, the sunlight streaming down upon their entangled forms and the breeze caressing their skin. They parted softly; pulling Spock into his arms, Jim reflected that there would be many, many more kisses to come.  
  
This was certainly going to go down as the best Shore Leave he'd ever had.


End file.
